


Eyes On Your Target

by MacKyleMore



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Bowling Au...modern...yeah, Cheddar bc its cheesey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacKyleMore/pseuds/MacKyleMore
Summary: "Are you always looking to the left everytime you throw?" Forde says this while looking ahead down the track. Kyle also sees a smile play on his profile, because like Forde said, he is looking to the left instead of straight; looking at Forde."N-no!""Then why are you doing it now?"Kyle grumbles. Forde plays dirty, all the while no where near the foul line.With no come-back, Forde finally looks his way. "Eyes on the little guide triangles. On your target."
Relationships: Forde/Kyle
Kudos: 3





	Eyes On Your Target

**Author's Note:**

> i make kyle left handed kyle left handed hc die mad abt it

"You know you're supposed to _hit_ the pins, right?"

This is the third gutter ball in a row that Kyle has thrown; and in the middle of the lane he stands, still facing the aisle. Maybe if he _watches_ the ball roll this time, it will change trajectory. Because turning around and walking back to the return prooves only that he will hear no sound of clanging pins; and instead comments about how bad he is at this.

Doesn't matter; watch or not, he still hears the same sounds. (or lack of.) Now he only _sees_ his poor skills instead of Forde's smart-ass grin. He's not sure which is worse.

At his side, one hand tightens into a fist. "I told you it's because I'm left-handed--"

"Excuses, excuses." Kyle knows that if he turns around, Forde would be using one hand to wave in the air while the other spins the ice in his Lime Coke from a fountain around. He knows that if he sees this, he will be tempted to hit _Forde_ instead of the pins. He knows he will hit neither, for physically he _cannot._

"It's not an excuse. Your privileged right-hand has it _much_ easier; and even now I am still finding things in my everyday life that would be do-able were I not left-handed."

"Like bowling?"

"Like bowling."

Forde heaves himself up, the syrup in his paper cup having gone dry. There's still one more roll in this frame, so Kyle tries to focus on the weight in his hand instead of the weight of Forde's eyes pressuring him.

Another gutter ball.

"Man, you _suck!"_ The empty cup is shoved into Kyle's chest. "Get me a refill while I show you how it's done."

Forde, with his nicely-fit specialty shoes so the floor doesn't get scratched. Forde, with his sleeves rolled up and shirt tucked in so nothing gets in the way of the _"aerodynamics"_ as he put it. Forde, with _just_ the right amount of gloat in his step as he picks up a bowling ball a good _two pounds_ heavier than the one he chose, _just_ to piss Kyle off.

In this particular turn, he knocks down eight.

"If _you're_ so _good_ why didn't you get a strike?"

"If you're so _bad_ why aren't you getting me something to drink as punishment?"

"How the hell did you drink all 32 ounces already? This is only the second frame!"

"Just be a good lackey and keep me hydrated so I can keep over-scoring you."

Kyle groans, and makes his way over to the Freestlye machine. If Forde thought he would get another Coca-Cola he should have asked someone else. A repulsive deep color of Hi-C Fruit Punch and Diet Vanilla Root Beer is mixed in his drink.

"Here..." He hands it back to him, but he can't help but look at the scoreboard. Forde had hit _both_ the two he missed last time even though they were parallel to one another.

But if he looks at his score, it reads as follows:

**Cyle:** 0 0 **|** 0 0  
 **0 | 0**

At first Forde finding it funny to spell his name with a C irritated him, but if he finishes this game like it's starting he doesn't want his name in the records at _all._ No one needs to know if he can't hit a single roll.

"What the _hell_ did you do to this?!"

"I got you your drink."

"I wanted Lime Coke, not this... _bile."_

"Lime Coke tastes like floor cleaner." Maybe Kyle should try a heavier ball this time. Not much to lose.

"That's why I need it, because I'm gonna sweep this game like a janitor sweeps a floor." A fifth shot from Kyle that doesn't make contact... " _But I don't think I'll have any trouble without it."_

No matter what he tries, none of his shots land. A heavier ball isn't working; it's only making it to the gutter _faster._ Oh well, better put an end to this as soon as he can.

"Seriously... this hurts to watch." Forde leans over a bench to set his cup down, but not until after having taken another sip. It doesn't taste very good, but it's there in front of him so why not just finish it? 

It hurts for _him_ to watch, too. So he doesn't even care anymore and instead winds back anticipating this one to go where ever it so pleases.

But before he has the time to let it go, he feels a hand over-top his. Behind him, Forde puts a break on his stance. "No wonder you're so terrible at this." How did he walk over here so fast? "Your posture is worse than the taste of my Mystery Liquid."

"Th-there's nothing wrong with--"

"Put your right foot forward a little." Is that _Forde's_ hand pushing his back? "And your arm is a _tad_ too elevated. You're trying to _send it down the middle_ ; not lob it." Well, this one he _knows_ is Forde, because he can _see_ his hand under his forearm adjusting his position.

"Are you always looking to the left everytime you throw?" Forde says this while looking ahead down the track. Kyle also sees a smile play on his profile, because like Forde said, he is looking to the left instead of straight; looking at _Forde_.

"N-no!"

"Then why are you doing it _now?"_

Kyle grumbles. Forde plays dirty, all the while no where _near_ the foul line.

With no come-back; Forde finally looks his way. "Eyes on the little guide triangles. On your _target_."

Lingering before listening, Kyle glares at Forde. Not because the neck of his shirt fits perfectly around his collar bones; not because he's so _close,_ and he can _feel_ the heat of working up a sweat this casual sport causes radiating against his arm. And _definetly_ not because Forde would be a much easier _'target'_ than those white towers that look so far away from here.

"I can do this myself."

"Just listen to me, _just this once_. When you let it go, let the weight carry _you_ instead of _you_ carrying the _weight."_

He rolls his eyes, and once Forde lets go of his arm but still stands on the floor nearby, Kyle is absolutely _not_ taking the other's advice.

This time; he knocks down six of them.

Apart from the distant sound of other pins being knocked down, (There is a group of kids on the opposite end having a birthday party. Kyle and Forde obviously didn't get the memo, because besides that group they are the only two people here. But it _is_ one of those dollar-game nights, how were they supposed to know this kid's parents would be cheap enough to take their kid and his friends out on a school night?) Kyle hears slow clapping behind him. 

"Finally! Some competition."

" _Shut up;_ it's still early on. I'm going to win." With Forde's help, maybe. But still; _he'd win_.

"Pfft. _Wanna bet?"_

"Yeah. Whatever over-priced vending machine junkfood you want. It's yours if you win."

"You're so far behind already, _that's not fair_." Forde walks up beside the return, the ventilation on the machine blowing his bangs into his eyes. Using his arm not holding the ball, he brushes them back. "But I _have_ been craving Skittles. Maybe if I taste the rainbow I won't have to taste whatever the hell you put in my cup anymore."

"Don't count on it."

_"Move!_ It's my _turn!"_

Before he even gives him a _chance_ to walk away, Forde kicks him in the ankle. He's too smug. 

"What exactly is _in_ that potion, anyway?" Kyle hears as he watches. The balanced tension in Forde's muscles and the fluidity of his method are only something Kyle is observing so intently so that he can _learn_ something. Again, Forde's scores _are_ pretty consistent. There is a thing or two he could get from trying to mimmick this.

"Why don't you guess?"

"Guess?" While waiting for the pins to get replaced, he hops off the small ledge where the floor changes from finished to carpet. Another taste tells him nothing. "How many things are in it?"

"Two." 

"Two...?" He takes another sip, and opens the lid to see if the color leads him in any sort of direction. Brown with tones of pink underneath... it could be anything. "Is any of it like... cherry?"

"Not... _directly..._ but maybe in one of them?"

"How do you not know? Is there a randomize button you need a passcode to access or something?"

"Ugh, _just finish your frame_. Think it over while you do that."

"You want to buy me Skittles that badly?

No, he isn't going to lose.

"...It's kind of acidic but also creamy at the same time? I have _no_ idea."

"It's Diet Vanilla Root Beer and Fruit Punch."

_"What?!"_ Forde, a bit thrown off and unfocused, shoots his first gutterball this game. "Do you think I have hyperactive tastebuds or something? No way in hell I'd ever guess _that."_

"Stop trying to hide the ball you just threw _directly_ into the side."

"No problem. _I_ can afford it. Unlike _someone_ else..."

"I was just warming up."

"You have like, _three_ points."

They swap places on the floor again; Forde purposefully runs his shoulder into Kyle's. " _Watch where you're going_." He tells him, even though _he's_ the one that walked into _him_.

And Kyle's thankful that bowling doesn't involve going head-to-head with your opponent the way chess or cards would. Or Forde would see the smile that he can't swallow back; and Kyle just _cannot_ keep a poker face around him and this would surely cause his low score to plummet even _further._

From where he stands, _no one_ should be able to see the amusement on his face but him; but even _he_ can't see it after he throws the ball and hits a total of one pin. His joy turns to frustration.

"I think it's harder to hit only _one_ instead of none." It sounds like he's cupping his hands in front of his mouth to be heard. Or maybe just so staff nearby can hear too and join Forde in his constant onslaught of making-fun. "Because if you hit one it usually at LEAST hits another. How'd you even _do_ that...? You're a madman."

"The only reason I keep doing so badly is because you're putting me under pressure."

_"You_ watch _me_ like a hawk and _I_ play fine."

"D-Do not!" 

How'd he know that? Is there a mirror somewhere? Does he have eyes on the back of his head? 

"Yeah I do. _I_ actually hit the pins."

He's playing dumb, but maybe Kyle's dumber.

"That's not what I was talking about!"

"Well either that, or you were saying you weren't watching me. And we both know you _were."_

"No-"

"How many excuses do you have? You're under _'too much pressure?'_...You _totally_ weren't watching me, right? Even though I _felt_ your eyes on me. But is that only because you're left-handed? Trying to learn how to switch to right?"

"Why don't you try bowling one with your left and see what I go through every day?"

"No? I'm right-handed, I'm _normal_. And Kyle...? There _are_ professional left-handed bowlers..."

"Yeah? Name _one."_

"Not _you,_ that's for sure." Why does Forde have to scoff like that while smiling at the same time? It should be making him mad, (Which it is) but it's also making him feel _something else._

Two throws is too much each turn. He has to go _again._ And each turn he plays isn't much better than the last. It's hard to listen to any advice Forde has given him when it will come full swing and jab at his ego. Maybe he'd prefer a clean score of zero all across the board.

He tries this time not to watch Forde play; and the text that makes his phone go off in his pocket does a good job at helping him in doing this. 

Until he checks that it is _Forde_ who sent it; a second ago before he got up to take his turn.

There are two links, one of which says directly in the URL the words _"lists"_ and _"left-handed-bowlers."_ He ignores this one, but clicks the next.

And immedietly wishes he hadn't. _This_ one is an article with a bold claim that left-handed bowlers have an advantage. 

But he reads through it; all the while the sound of _too many pins_ being shot down echoes down the lane.

"Forde... did you... did you even READ this before you sent it to me?"

"Hmm?" He's done with his turn, and Kyle's glad this place is nearly empty because he knows they are taking _way_ too long between each frame. Forde sits next to him and goes to try and chip away at more of his Vanilla Root Beer Punch. "I read the _headline."_

"Well if you took the time to read the _whole thing,"_ He tries to focus on wording instead of how close Forde is again. "You'd see it's _pretty much_ all fake. The reason people may think being a left-handed bowler has more advantage points is because the left side looks like it breaks down faster because there are fewer left-handed people. And that's for leagues! _We're_ filthy casuals; _we're playing on the same lane._ In reality, it all pretty much evens out; be it how the left lanes have less wear-and-tear instead of the right, or how the holes in the average ball are cut to fit a right hand."

"...So you really _are_ just _that bad_?"

...He set himself up, shit.

_"...Shut up."_

Behind him, as he makes one last feeble attempt to get out of this and just take his turn, Forde is laughing that irritating, mock, almost _cute_ laugh of his and by now listening to any words of guidance on how he should ' _let the weight carry him_ ' or ' _not be so tense_ ' have all COMPLETELY slipped his mind. His firm hold on the ball make his knuckles whiter than the pins he wishes he could hit.

At the end, as he himself has figured at some point would be the likely outcome; Kyle takes a hard loss.

"Good effort, if you were trying to take the record for _worst score-"_

"Double or nothing."

"W-what?"

"Double or nothing. Skittles and whatever else you want. But you _have_ to win _again."_

Forde had started untying his bowling shoes, but a new knot is now secured. " _Please_ love yourself more."

"I like myself plenty, because I will no longer owe you Skittles once this match ends."

"...You talk a big game for such a big _loser._ Fine. I'll go and renew the lane."

Why did he suggest this... at this point he _knows_ Forde will win again. Maybe he just wants to ride this out for as long as he can; maybe at least see if he _can_ win. It's not like he is _upset_ at the idea of having to take Forde home for the night _already._ Not like he's having _fun_ getting made fun _of;_ not like he wants to see that look of vanity laugh at him when he ends _another game_ with _another loss._

He decides to change the names on the electronic scoreboard before Forde returns.

He could go and just spell his own name correctly, but now that he realizes just how bad he is he doesn't _want_ to. He punches in the C to spell it out the same way Forde did; even if it looks more like it reads _'Sile'_ than anything else.

When he goes to input something at _least_ sort of clever for Forde's name; he notices he is already on his way back. Ugh, why couldn't he take his time? Maybe pour out the soda and get a new one? (Because while he sort of vowed to finish it at first, the more he drinks it the more _obvious_ it becomes that he doesn't want anymore.) Kyle panics, and drops the _'e'_ in his name and leaves it at that.

"Oh _come on..."_

"Ahh, _What?"_

" _You know I hate that!_ "

"Yeah?"

"That joke's not _funny_ anymore! Actually, _it never was._ My whole life I've dealt with people everytime I tell them my name..." Forde's voice shifts to try and sound like an average idiot; whatever _that_ sounds like. "' _Like the truck?'_ Yes like the truck now _shut the truck up."_

He makes an effort to walk over, change it, and add the last letter; but Kyle is quick enough to hit enter.

"If I get to be _'Sile'_ you can be Built Ford Tough for a little while."

"I thought the worst of it ended in high school! You know, where social status _matters_? But now _you_ pull this? We're not friends anymore. I'm not going easy on you this time. Have fun blowing your cash on me."

"I would have made it something else but you came back too quickly and I didn't know what else to do!"

"Whatever. _Fine._ After this match you will be nothing more than roadkill because I'm going to run all over your pathetic little efforts."

"Why don't you _pick up the pace_ instead? Like the pick-up truck you are? Afraid you'll lose this time?"

Forde glares at him, but his _smile_ doesn't match the look he tries to convey. "Pick _you_ up off the floor after you're done crying on it because you're such a sore loser."

* * *

Forde looks as if he's ready to go; and has to turn around when Kyle stops at the vending machine.

"Do you not want your crazy expensive snacks?"

"You were serious?"

"...Yeah? Might as well buy them now so you don't hold it against me some other time."

"Okay!" He almost skips back over. The glass doors he stood before only a second ago tell Kyle it's getting dark out. 

"What do you want?"

"Well, _Skittles._ And..."

While Forde looks over his options; _Kyle can't help but look over Forde_. Not directly, but in the reflection of the machine's glass. He was too obvious in staring before... and Forde's already onto him about it.

"And Cheetos."

"No eating those in my car..." 

Kyle hates vending machines and self-checkouts. Who's to say it's not going to eat your bills? It's like a gamble; and he's already lost one bet today.

"Why not?"

Good, it took it. Both items fall into the small box beneath.

"I don't need forensics looking at your cheese-dust fingerprints all over my white interior."

"That's why you should have a black one." The wrapper is torn open a little too hard, and a couple of Skittles pop out and roll under the machine. 

"Black gets too hot in the summer." By now the party here has ended, and the only sounds that can be heard are their shoes on the pavement as they make it out the door and the occasional crinkle of a wrapper everytime Forde pours himself a few more pieces of candy.

And the neon-orange of Cheetos would probably _still_ show up on darker colors...

" _¿Quieres?_ " Forde asks; colorful bag held out in front of him when they get seated in his car. In the summer, black is too warm. But right now, this late... he's a bit on the cooler side.

"What, you want to give me all the orange ones because you don't like them?"

_"No!"_ Forde's laugh though somehow warms him... or at least makes him _feel_ warm. "You're wrong. I don't _dislike_ them; they're just my least favorite."

"No thanks; I'll pass on the rejects--"

_"C'mon._ Eat some. _You payed for them_."

"I know I did. Still don't want any."

"Okay. How about _this._ I give you a few different flavors... _and you guess."_

Why is he _smiling_ so much? Is he _still_ bragging about having beat him so hard?

"Whatever you do; it won't be as bad as your weird soda. Not much you can make disgusting with assorted Skittle flavors." After that, he feels the need to add one more line. "You may win at bowling, but I win at emotional leverage."

"I never said I was _trying_ to make it disgusting! I just want to see how good you are at guessing. Because clearly _I'm_ not."

"Fine."

"Close your eyes."

_"You're ridiculous."_ He says this, but he _has_ closed his eyes now and puts his hand out in front of him to take however many pieces Forde has in mind.

Instead of candy in his palm he feels Forde's grip around his wrist; and instead of a taste guessing-game Kyle finds himself trying to guess why it feels an _awful lot_ like Forde is _kissing_ him right now.

Actually, Forde wins at both bowling _and_ emotional leverage.

But Kyle, with the help of Forde; at least didn't _completely_ lose tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> ooh this is really cheesey actually . cheesier than cheetos. hurts to read and i wrote it.


End file.
